Five Times The Avengers Didn't Hunt Down Dean Winchester
by MirrorShard
Summary: It's an open secret that there are a lot of things that never make it into SHIELD's official post-mission reports. Dean Winchester is one of them.
1. One

**Five Times The Avengers Didn't Hunt Down Dean Winchester (And The One Time Thor Threw Him A Party)**

* * *

 **| One |**

* * *

It takes all of three seconds for the mission to go completely off-the-rails. Which, granted, isn't unusual in Clint's line of work, but _fuck_ , three seconds? This has to be a new record, even for him.

What's even more concerning though, is the way things have gone wrong. Or maybe _batshit crazy_ would be a better description. Clint mentally notes that down. Coulson always appreciates it when his reports are more detailed than strictly necessary. He might appreciate it even more if Clint leaves out the part where he may have kidnapped a drugged teenager and then proceeded to not bring him to a hospital like common sense would suggest.

Yeah.

This is gonna be one of _those_ missions.

Coulson will be an unbearable pain in the ass when this is all over. Clint just knows it.

It happens something like this:

Not only does Clint's contact turn out to be a turncoat, who takes him down in a couple of seconds flat — which is just insulting, seriously, Clint is better than that, except apparently he isn't. He blames Coulson for restoring some tiny shard of faith in humanity in him. 'Unreasonable paranoia' his ass — but Clint wakes up in what he at first assumes to be the delightful care of the drug-dealing ring responsible for the newest nightmare on the streets. Sadly, Clint's initial assessment proves overly optimistic.

Instead of a wanna-be drug cartel trying out new chemical formulas, he's found himself hanging from the ceiling of an old, abandoned warehouse, among at least six other people, with the growing suspicion that his captors' true passion lies less in reliving old chemistry classes and more in squishy human experimentation.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

There's a creepy-as-fuck dude with greying hair, thick glasses, and the stubbled remains of a beard, who's clearly doing his level best to ace every single crazy doctor stereotype there is. He's pretty good at it too, Clint has to admit. He's definitely getting chills just from having the guy standing there right in front of him, close enough to feel the man's puff of breath on his face —

" _Dude, personal space!_ " Clint wants to say, but his tongue refuses to cooperate, and what comes out is more of a slurred, "Uhd esual schaze?" Which sounds funny actually, and Clint spends the next minute or two sounding the odd vowels out in his head.

He's been drugged before, concussed before, but this right now is an odd mixture of clear thoughts and sluggish muscles that simultaneously sets loose a twinge of panic in Clint's gut, and makes him crack a couple of jokes. Sadly, he's too out-of-it to share them with the class.

Then again, are creepy scientists even allowed to have a sense of humour? Clint votes no.

— peering at him like he's some bug under a microscope or something. Clint would be disconcerted — ha, dis-con-cer-ted, he does know big words, suck on that Coulson — by those huge, blue eyes taking him apart, except Clint is confident this guy isn't gonna like what he finds underneath the mouthy shell that never misses a shot.

People never do.

Used to be, Clint would angst about that like a thirteen year old with his first crush, but it turns out angsting doesn't actually stop others from leaving you, betraying you, shooting you in the fucking chest — thanks a lot, Barney — and so maybe Clint hasn't fixed himself so much as pierced the worst pieces of him back together without bothering with the best, cause those were shattered beyond repair, but hey, he's still standing — metaphorically speaking, considering he's currently hanging on a rope, and damn, his shoulders are killing him — so Clint doesn't think anyone can fault him for his methods.

Yeah, Clint is past that crappy teenage angst. It's high time, too, considering he's well into his late twenties. But better late than never, right?

Right.

The crazy-ass doctor slaps him. Could be, he doesn't like being ignored. His type never does. Could be, Clint just has one of those faces.

It's a hard slap. At least, Clint assumes it is from the way it echoes in the room. A sharp sound that hurts his ears more than his cheek because he still feels vaguely disconnected from his body. What registers the most is the way his head is moved sideways too quickly to be comfortable, his left cheek suddenly smudged uncomfortably against his aching arm.

Clint thinks the doc is talking. Probably asking him some questions.

 _Newsflash, if you want to interrogate your prisoners, make sure they're in a state to be interrogated_ , Clint thinks spitefully. It doesn't seem like the psycho gets the message though. God, he's been kidnapped by amateurs. Coulson will never let him live this down.

With his head tilted sideways at a probably uncomfortable angle, Clint gets a good eye-full of his fellow captives. Their bodies have been strung up like Clint, though unlike him they're also naked. It could be a nice view, if not for the multiple IV lines in their veins, filled with something that doesn't look look like any medication Clint recognises, the sickly sheen of their skin. Their tattoos are awesome though. For a brief moment, Clint wonders if it would be worth it to stick around, just to get some of that ink himself.

Of course, Coulson would actually kill him. But it might be worth it. The ink even glows in a sickly, blue-ish light. Although that could just be Clint. He's pretty sure he's seeing double, too.

Clint blinks. Slowly turns his head back around.

In his moment of distraction, the good, old doc has tripled himself — or not. Clint blinks a second, and third time, before he realises that what he's seeing are actually the doc and two of his minions. The identical lab coats, totally out of place in a dirty warehouse like this, threw him off for a moment.

Clint doesn't feel a sting, can't tell if he's getting injected with something or his body is simply inevitably shutting down, not yet ready to handle reality. All he knows is that he's staring into the doctor's blue eyes, wishing they were hazel or green or brown, even if he isn't entirely sure why, and feeling the twinge in his uncomfortably stretched muscles that tells him his shoulders are gonna hurt like a motherfucker when he gets out of these bindings, and then the world sort of tilts on its axis, and Clint stumbles, slides, loses his foothold and —

* * *

Pain. That's the first thing Clint registers. For one, breathless moment, everything hurts and it's all he can do not to trash, not to let his breath hitch, not to tense. Then the first wave passes, and Clint welcomes the sensation instead, lets it flow through him, let's it burn away the last remains of unconsciousness and haziness. Pain, he knows from experience, is better, clearer, sharper, than the cottony numbness he's been stuck in before.

Pain is motivation. Pain is being alive.

Clint prefers staying that way.

With his eyes still closed and his face relaxed in apparent unconsciousness, Clint focuses on what his body is telling him first. His upper body is just about killing him, having been strung up for far too-long, especially with the way he's sagged into himself, forcing his bound arms to carry all of his weight. His toes just about touch the floor, and it's tempting, so damn tempting, to shift, to stand and let his legs carry some of the weight. But being unconscious is the only advantage Clint has right now, so he grits his teeth and breathes through it instead.

Clint focuses on doing what he does best, second only to taking impossible shots and making them work — and boy is he gonna enjoy shooting these bastards when it's all over — he listens.

He listens to the soft tap-tap-tap of people moving around him. _The advantage of a huge, but mostly empty warehouse: the acoustics are fantastic_ , Clint thinks with only 60 percent of sarcasm. Five people moving around freely. Probably the doc's minions, and maybe the doc himself. Clint has no idea how big this operation is. But if it's limited to one warehouse then it can't be that huge.

He hopes.

There's the distinct noise of class vials clicking against each other, the sound of fluids getting mixed, the rustle of machinery Clint associates with hospitals instinctively — he remembers the IV lines now, and wonders what it is they're pumping into these men, wonders how much time he has before — soft murmurs that he hears but doesn't truly understand, about mixtures and dosages. He's got a pretty good idea of what's going on though. Apparently, all those dead addicts weren't planned. After all, what's a druggie worth when they don't come back for more?

They're experimenting. Perfecting the composition. Clint doesn't swallow, but his determination to get out of here surges. He has a very good idea what's going to happen to him once these people realise he won't give them whatever answers they're looking for. And Clint doesn't fear death, never has, but there's something about drugs, about losing control, about possibly ending up in one of those hospital beds, unable to do more than drool and stare at the ceiling, that twists Clint's insides around with unease.

He'd take a headshot over that any day of the week, that's for damn sure.

Clint is still trying to come up with a plan — he's got five already, but he needs a damn distraction to free himself first, and besides it's not like he has anything better to do than think over all his options a seventh time — when he hears it.

There's a commotion outside, the sound of three approaching footsteps, one of them stumbling. Also cursing.

In the previous quiet of the warehouse, the annoyed, "You're one hell of a handsy sonofabitch, you know that?" stands out quite drastically.

Clint risks a quick glance, just to confirm that the creepy experimentation club is otherwise occupied. Which they are.

By the loud-mouthed guy, who's dragged inside by two of the docs minions — at least, Clint assumes that's what they are— and making his displeasure known. Clint feels something suspiciously like a sliver of uncomfortable foreboding slithering through the cracks between his ribs, where he stuffs all the emotional shit he doesn't want to deal with right now. Or ever.

Because despite his crass words — which Clint very much approves of — and reckless bravado whilst staring down the crazy doctor, this guy is too fucking young to be in a place like this.

It's a stupid thought. Clint knows that. He's seen enough shitty missions that involved people too young to understand the choices they made. Choices that can't be taken back. Choices that, more often than not, end with their bloody death. Clint carefully doesn't think about the times he was one to deal out said death. The times he knows he'll have to do it again.

There's no true innocent in their world, that much Clint learned long before his descend into the depth of human depravity. But sometimes there's no true guilty either, and that — it's enough to turn a man inside out. Enough to break your spirit, enough to fall over the edge of a very, very thin line.

It's a good thing that Clint has perfected balancing on slim ropes long before he killed his first man. Hard to disillusion a guy when there are no illusions left, and all that.

That doesn't make it easy to see this — this _kid_ , because that's what he is, can't be a day over twenty, and that's only when Clint squints with both eyes, vision still blurry from a heavy blow to the head. He shouldn't be here, in this place, anymore than any of the other victims. But it's easier to see grown men here, and a part of Clint is pleased that he's still got some of that humanity left. He buries it under the ruthlessness needed to get through this mission. A mission that may not include saving this kid's life, if it comes down to it.

But Clint isn't just Clint, hasn't been since he was sixteen and Barney put a gun in his hand and said ' _Aim for the head_.' He's Hawkeye and this kid's fate is out of his hands.

Although his snark — "Personally, abandoned warehouses are more of a third date location, but whatever floats your boat, I guess," thrown out with a careless smirk that dares the doc to hit him, and shit, this kid's got worse self-preservation instincts than _Clint_ — is amusing. And helpful.

It's exactly the kind of distraction Clint needs to finally work himself out of his bindings. Really, who uses rope to tie people of up these days?

Across the room, the kid's eyes flicker to Clint for a brief moment. Clint immediately stills, but the kid must realise more about his situation than he had first assumed because he immediately focuses his gaze back onto the freaky doctor, features set into the kind of defiance that promises to be amusing and dangerous at once.

Clint isn't in the least surprised, when the kid's next words are a whole lot more confrontational than the last. He'd feel a little bad for the poor bastard, knowing that upsetting their kidnappers won't lead to anything good, but he hasn't asked for help. And with any luck the psychos will be dead before they can retaliate.

In that precise moment, one of the doc's minions rams his fist hard into the kid's gut, causing him to double over — or try to, anyways — with a breathless groan. Clint almost winces in sympathy. _Or maybe not_ , he acknowledges drily.

Focusing once more on twisting his hands free, ignoring the added strain to his shoulders, the burn where the rope digs too deep into his skin, Clint redoubles his efforts.

Across the room, the kid chuckles raspily, which thankfully shuts the mad doctor's rambling about _perfecting heaven for humanity_ up. Seriously, how did Clint's ordinary-as-you-please drug case turn into yet another megalomaniac determined to rebuild humanity? That's what Clint would like to know.

"You talk a great game and all, but this isn't my first rodeo and you're just like every other Dr. Markoff rerun I've come across," the kid sneers with an impressive amount of venom. "You talk big about science and advancement and improving human life, but that's not what this is about, is it. This is about what _you_ can get out of your bullshit improvements, and fuck how many people are gonna die in the process. You may be human, but that doesn't make you any less of a sick bastard!" The last words are almost a shout, spat out with all the force of a flying fist that lands its intended target. They neatly cover the squeaky sound of Clint's robe sliding through the metal ring on the ceiling, dropping at his feet.

 _The kid is good_ , Clint thinks appreciatively. He's glaring down the doc hard, with furious hatred burned into his face, struggling against the two minions holding him back. All eyes in the room are on him, this kid that can't be older than twenty, is bloodied and beaten and not at all afraid — or not showing it, in any case —, standing here in this warehouse, doing whatever he can do keep anyone from noticing Clint's movements.

Clint isn't the biggest advocate on teamwork, but when it works, it works. And with this kid, it definitely works. Better than the last time Hill tried to paw off some useless newbie recruits on him, and isn't that a sad statement for the state of their organisation overall.

Grabbing the biggest knife he finds on one of the nearby tables, which isn't as big as he'd like it to be, Clint slinks into the shadows.

Taking out the first two guards is easy. They're both distracted by the kid, and not expecting an attack at all. They never see him coming.

He takes their guns. They're not an adequate replacement for his bow, but they'll do in a pinch. That said, the rest of the doc's people are all standing close by the kid, in a loosely formed circle, watching the show. That's the downside of the distraction: Clint will probably be able to shoot them all before they reach him — but he won't be able to do it before they reach the kid.

Clint hesitates. He shouldn't — his priorities are very, very clear, alright, and the kid doesn't even make it into the top five — but getting him killed now seems like a waste of genuine talent. And Coulson is always on the look-out for new recruits, so really, Clint would be doing him a favour if he brought home a stray.

Problem being that there isn't a better, easier way to take his targets out. And damn if Clint isn't glad that Coulson doesn't need these guys alive. Usually he isn't the type to take assassinations personally, but being drugged is a big no-go in Clint's book. That the doctor makes his skin crawl doesn't help.

What it comes down to is this: Clint doesn't have a lot of choices, and no real interest in getting drawn into close combat with anyone else if he can avoid it. His arms feel numb enough as it is — though it's only a matter of time until he'll feel the fizzling and burning, like flames greedily licking along his muscles, disintegrating them completely. Shooting will suck. Punching a third person might actually kill him. Or feel like it, at least.

It's a gamble — the kind Clint doesn't like at all, involving a life that isn't his own — but it's one he's going to have to take if he wants to make it out of here. If he wants the both of them to make it out of here.

Which he apparently does.

Clint takes in his surroundings more carefully, lines up the first shot. If he's quick about it — with his protesting muscles he can't count on it — he can take out two of them before they realise what's happening. Not the doctor, the kid's in the way, but that might not be such a bad thing. If Coulson wants to have a _chat_ with any of these guys, it'd be with the brains of the operation.

Clint pulls the trigger.

One of the remaining guards falls to the ground, dead. The recoil almost makes Clint scream. His whole arm is shaking, but Clint pushes through it. Lines up a second shot.

There's yells and screams. One minion reaches for his gun. Another dives towards cover. Ironically, the chaos serves as the distraction needed to free the kid. Who is moving as soon as he's got his hands free. Slams an elbow into one guard's side. Ducks out under the grip of the mad doctor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint notices movement. He throws himself to the left just in time, a bullet whizzing past his ear. He really doesn't like melees like this. Within half a second the warehouse has become a glorified killbox. There's only so much skill can do in the utter chaos of such a dangerously contained battle.

Then there's all the tables with odd, chemical mixtures around them. Clint wonders if they'll blow up.

At least the kid's holding his own.

Clint finally gets close enough to tackle the asshole who keeps trying to shoot him. He's not in top form — pretty damn far from it, actually — but punching the bastard's face a couple of times makes him feel a little better. SHIELD's psychologists have no idea what they're missing.

"Lawrence, watch out!" someone — the kid — shouts suddenly.

Clint responds instinctively, reacts more to the underlying panic than the words themselves as he rolls over the ground. And yup, there's asshole number four, determined to drive a spear through Clint's gut.

Clint shoots again. Misses. (Again, not in top form here.) The bullet hits one of the huge glass cylinders on those improvised lab tables instead. It shatters. Glass flies everywhere. Some of the see-through substance hits asshole four, who screams in pain.

 _Don't touch weird experimental shit. Good to know._

Another shot hits the writhing man in the forehead. Clint likes to be sure that his enemies don't get up again in inconvenient moments. Then he's on his feet again, gun pointed straight at the head-asshole of creepy medicine, who is — predictably — using the kid as a shield.

There's blood dripping down the kid's nose and Clint is sure he's got a whole lot more bruises to show for than half an hour ago, but he's still breathing. So there's that. And now they're here, in the exact standoff Clint was hoping to avoid.

Because he knows how this is going to end. He's Hawkeye, first and foremost, and he isn't here to play hero. From the kid's pinched lips, he knows it too. But he meets Clint's eyes without fear, only determination and a sort of grim satisfaction Clint recognises all too well.

It's a damn shame, seeing that sort of knowledge splayed out on a face that young. Good thing that this isn't a typical hostage situation.

 _Trust yourself_ , Clint remembers one of his first tutors, back at the circus, half a lifetime ago. _Trust the shot_.

It had been his mantra for a long time. Trust in the shot. You can't trust people. Can't trust anyone else in the world. But this, this he could trust in. Even back then, when his world had been a whole lot bleaker than it is now.

 _Trust the shot_.

Clint doesn't wait for the mad docs ridiculous stipulations. He pulls the trigger. The bullet goes straight through the left eye.

"Nice shot." The kid whistles, looking genuinely impressed as he shrugs off the sudden deadweight.

Clint grins. Or tries to, anyways. "Probably not the best time to tell you I'm seeing double, eh?"

The kid's eyes widen, but after a moment he catches himself and snorts. "Better apologising than asking for permission, huh?"

"Something like that." Clint nods. Wonders if he's supposed to feel this easy camaradie — if this kid is gonna turn around any moment now to shoot him. Paranoia sucks. But not being paranoid enough sucks worse.

"We should probably—"

That's when the screaming starts.

There's no upbuilt to it, no gasping draw for breath before the sound. One moment, there is silence. The next, the high-pitched wail of pain is deafening.

Clint is on his knees, hands pressed protectively over his ears, instinctively curled into himself. He doesn't know how long it lasts, has no recollection of even crouching down the way he clearly is. But finally, after an eternity and a half, the only thing ringing in his ears is blessed quiet.

"What the fuck?" Clint blurts out, though he isn't sure who he is addressing.

"They're dead."

Oh, right. The kid.

Wait, what?

"They're dead," the kid repeats, voice caught somewhere between incredulous and impatient. He's gesturing wildly at something behind Clint, so Clint decides to take a fucking clue and turn around.

To come face to face with the other men — victims — the doctor had strung up on the ceiling next to him. Right. He'd forgotten about them. But now that he's half-way steady again, Clint takes the time to take them in. Properly. All five are male, have a strong build, and are covered from head to toe in tattoos. A vivid memory of those same tattoos, glowing in a bright, blue light, briefly flashes through Clint's mind, but he's probably got the concussion he most certainly has to thank for that.

The kid pokes the closest one, clearly checking what they both already know. Those five men are dead.

"Must've been bound to Dr. Markoff over there," the kid mutters.

Clint wants to ask him a couple of questions, _What the hell are you talking about?_ , _What are you even doing here?_ and _Who are you?_ among the top five, but he's kinda hoping the interrogation can wait until he stops swaying. Maybe even until his head stops feeling like it's wrapped in cotton. That would be nice.

But even as out of it as he is right now, Clint is damn good at his job. Damn good at surviving. And even before the kid's head suddenly snaps around, eyes wide with horror, even before he yells, "Lawrence! Watch out!" Clint feels the tell-tale prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and he knows the danger hasn't passed yet.

He turns, ducking as he does so — though 'legs giving out under him' might be a more accurate description, not that Clint will ever admit that, fuck mission report accuracy — and has just enough time to catch sight of a slim woman wearing a lab coat and a furious snarl and wielding a syringe like a katana before the kid barrels into them.

If the kid's a double agent, he really goes all-out to convince Clint otherwise. Including several vicious punches before he manages to slam the woman's head against the unforgiving floor a couple of times.

Only when he rolls of the now motionless woman — and Clint really couldn't give less fucks whether she survives or not — does Clint notice the syringe in his arm.

"Fuck!" he says emphatically as he stumbles forward, keeps the kid upright with a tight grip on his shoulders.

"Son of a bitch," the kid hisses, grabs the syringe and pulls it out with one harsh tug. They both know it won't do a thing, but Clint kicks the damn thing further away all the same.

The kid reaches towards him suddenly. His hands are far too clammy for Clint's peace of mind. "The bodies," the kid forces the words out like they hurt. They might. Clint has seen the autopsies of some of the drug addicts they've found over the past weeks. Whatever this shit is, if it's even the same stuff, it's not a nice way to go.

"You gotta burn them." The kid's face is chalk white and his eyes are losing their focus. Clint is kinda impressed how authoritative he still manages to sound. "Find sodium chloride and—" The kid chokes on a groan that does nothing to drown out the fire still burning in his eyes. "B-burn them all."

Having said his piece, the kid's grip is slackening. Clint tries, but he's feeling like he's been run over a couple of times and there's no supporting the kids' full weight once consciousness fades. Although the kid manages to pull Clint down with him, even lands half on top of him, so he figures they're about even.

Maybe.

* * *

It takes an eternity — almost seven minutes — for Clint to get his shit together. And his body out from under the crushing weight of the kid, who might be young but definitely isn't light. Or small.

Then, in a stroke of madness Coulson will never learn of, Clint walks — stumbles — through the warehouse on his search for sodium chloride.

He's not sure why exactly he's obeying the kid's strange demand, but hey, the kid may have just died for him. Clint figures he should be glad the last request wasn't anything weirder.

Clint finds a few vials of what he thinks is the correct, chemical abbreviation, but those are broken beyond repair and probably already mixed with a dozen other fluids Clint doesn't care to identify. This homebuilt lab really is creepily well-equipped.

He does find an old canister of road salt, and decides it will have to do. Cuts down the bodies from where they're dangling in the air like puppets, whose strings have been cut, and throws some salt over them. Then he dozes the whole artwork in gasoline.

It's not his best handiwork — and Coulson won't be happy, what with the destroyed evidence — but the mission was to take care of this new drug, not to fucking recreate it. Frankly, Clint thinks the world is probably better off without it. And if SHIELD doesn't see it that way, tough luck.

They should know by now that explosions follow Hawkeye wherever he goes.

He has the foresight to drag the kid out of the warehouse before he lights the match. He doesn't give the still unconscious-possibly-dead woman the same courtesy. Clint really doesn't like people who attack children. And nobody has ever made the mistake of calling him forgiving.

Anyways, for a warehouse filled with all sorts of chemicals, there's surprisingly few explosions. There is however a smoke so thick and poisonous, Clint decides it's high-time to get himself a car and hightail it out of here.

After a moment of contemplation — as well as checking the kid's still-beating pulse — Clint puts the kid in the passenger seat.

They're gone before the local authorities arrive — but it's a closer thing than Clint would've liked, considering he's kidnapping a possible minor and all. Perhaps he'll leave that part out of the mission report too.

* * *

There's a couple of reasons why Clint doesn't drag the kid into the nearest hospital, and most of them aren't even selfish. A significant one may or may not be the fact that, as things stand now, this kid has the only evidence left in his blood. And Clint isn't naive enough to let SHIELD or anyone else catch wind of that fact. Maybe that'll get the kid killed. But there are things worse than death — and most of them Clint has seen in one lab or another.

So he gets them a room in a beat-down, sleazy motel that probably won't even notice anything out of place if they leave blood-stains behind on the bedding, and gets the kid onto a bed.

His skin is waxy, nothing healthy about it at all, and his eyes are flickering restlessly under closed lids, but other than that he seems fine. No convulsions, no stomach suddenly tearing itself open from the inside out — yeah, maybe the kid'll live through this after all.

Clint finds himself kind of hoping he will. Maybe he'll get around to asking why the kid kept calling him Lawrence. It's a nice thought to fall asleep on.

* * *

Clint wakes up to rain pelting against the window, sweaty, bloodied clothes sticking uncomfortable to his skin, and the sight of an empty bed across his own. It takes him a moment to realise why that last part disturbs him, but then Clint is on his feet, tearing open the bathroom door before he's fully processed the movement.

The bathroom is empty. The kid's gone.

It's only when the injuries of the last few hours catch up with him that Clint is forced to sit down — falls — back onto the cheap bed, that he notices the note on the bedside table - one that looks like it's been used as an ashtray for most of its life.

 _Thanks for the help. You're a mean shot. Sorry I couldn't stick around._

 _If you're ever in trouble: +1 XXX-XXX-XXXX_

 _Dean_

* * *

Phil Coulson has worked at SHIELD for a long time. Long enough to know how to handle obstinate agents, ruthless killers, and psychotic megalomaniacs. One would think this has adequately prepared him to deal with the likes of Clint Barton.

One would, of course, be wrong.

There is nobody in the office except for him, so Phil pinches the bridge of his nose in an outward expression of exhausted disbelief he wouldn't usually allow himself. But allowances have to be made where Barton is concerned. In more ways than one.

"Agent Barton, could you please repeat that last part?" Phil keeps his voice bland and without inflection through sheer force of will.

On the other line, Barton sighs impatiently. "My contact was a mole," he repeats with exaggerated slowness. "He knocked me out. I woke up in a warehouse. Got the standard super villain speech. One of the other victims and I got out. We fought. The stupid henchmen kept shooting, blew the lab right up around us. We got out. They didn't. The end."

Phil doesn't sigh. Barely. "You have been busy," he says instead. "I assume the investigation of the local law enforcement will correspond with the more detailed report you'll hand in upon your return?"

He already knows it won't. From the short pause on the phone, so does Barton. But he'll have to cross that bridge once they reach it. For now, there are other things that require Phil's attention. For example:

"What about the other victim?"

Barton hums distractedly. "What? Oh, he's fine." Another pause. "Well, I think so. Wasn't here when I woke up at le— son of a bitch!"

Phil raises an eyebrow. That's a new one.

"Agent Barton?" he asks, thumb hovering over the emergency button.

"That bastard stole my car!"

* * *

Clint considers hunting Dean down for about thirty minutes. He liked that car, damn it. Who cares that he technically stole it himself?

The point is, Clint doesn't appreciate other people taking his things.

Still.

The post-mission report he hands in two weeks too late — much to the exasperation of one Agent Coulson — doesn't mention a green-eyed kid with too much courage and too much experience in hand-to-hand combat. Doesn't mention glowing tattoos and burning down crime scenes. Doesn't mention the note or sodium chloride.

It _does_ however mention the car Clint stole in great detail. Complete with current market price and a ten point list on why agents in general and Agent Barton in particular should be outfitted with one for their next mission.

After all, there's more than one way to get his hands on the right car, and Clint figures hunting Dean down is hardly the most practical one. It's got nothing to do with the unsettled debt between them.

Nothing at all.

* * *

 _Thoughts? Impressions? I hope I did both Clint and Dean justice, but feel free to let me know if you feel differently._

 _Next up: Steve_


	2. Two

**| Two |**

* * *

The problem isn't that Steve got himself involved in a bar fight on his supposed quiet night out, away from the craziness of the Avengers' Tower. Steve has gotten himself into fights since before he can walk — or at least that's what his mother and Bucky used to joke about at times — and it doesn't look like he'll get over this particular habit any time soon. Not now that he can actually afford to get into these fights and win, knows he'll probably walk away from them.

 _The problem_ , Steve reflects ruefully as he reflexively ducks a punch to his face, _is that Tony will never let me live this down_.

Captain America starting a bar fight. Forget paparazzi, Steve will be lucky if Clint doesn't leak pictures himself. And with JARVIS involved, Steve is pretty sure that there will be pictures. Yeah. His team is gonna be insufferable, that's for sure.

The thought probably shouldn't make Steve smile. Nor should he allow himself to be distracted in the middle of a brawl, as the meaty fist aiming at his face so kindly reminds him.

Steve ducks. Sidesteps. Bumps into another body. Spins.

And the dance continues.

Despite his heightened strength and endurance, this fight isn't without its challenges. Or rather because of his heightened senses this fight isn't without its challenges. Turns out it's actually pretty hard to beat people up without seriously hurting them in a drunk melee like this.

 _Bucky certainly would appreciate the irony_ , Steve thinks and the ache that accompanies that thought is almost bearable. Almost.

He'll get there.

In the meantime, he avoids a flying glass — and he'd really like to get up close and personal with the idiot who's started throwing them — rolls over a table, and promptly turns the furniture with him. It's mostly unplanned but the good kind. Because now he actually has some cover. Not that Steve needs to get his breath back, but he'd like to catch a moment to take the situation in fully. Also, he's pretty sure his shirt is soaked in beer.

A quick overview proves that the fight is centred towards the middle of the room. Besides a couple of broken glasses, a few overturned chairs and two tables — one of which is Steve's fault, actually, make that both — there are no casualties. A group of maybe six men are still in the middle of punching and shoving each other around, but the majority of the customers seems to have simply fallen back towards the pool tables — ironic since that is where this whole mess started — and are chattering and laughing as though this is simply their regular Friday night entertainment.

Which it might well be.

Catching sight of a tall, blonde man sneaking out the backdoor freezes Steve in place for longer than is probably wise, considering the circumstances. The man must have felt his gaze — or maybe it's simply a coincidence — but his eyes meet Steve's across the room, bright green clashing against steely blue. The stranger smirks then, self-satisfied and challenging, and not at all apologetic for the chaos he's caused.

Before tonight Steve has never met this man, nor would he call their brief acquaintance a particularly friendly one, and yet. There is something about that smirk that gives him pause, something about the challenge glinting like a cocked gun in the man's eyes that makes Steve want to relax and smirk back instead of jump up and attack.

The realisation of who exactly this man reminds him of is accompanied by the usual pang of loss, though thankfully lacking the sharp sense of loneliness and despair. Steve absently rubs at his chest, even as he takes the stranger in with new eyes. The way he holds himself like a soldier, something even the layers of flannel that Tony would have undoubtedly have a fit over don't manage to cover.

Oh, Steve had known that this man was dangerous from the start, but despite the gun he was clearly carrying — and thankfully hadn't drawn when the fight had first started — Steve had seen him as more of a crook than a fighter.

An impression helped along by the fact that the blonde man had been hustling pool when Steve had first arrived at the small, run-down bar, tucked away between a convenience store with a broken window and an up-for sale apartment that hadn't been inhabited by anyone in the two months Steve has been coming here.

Steve's not so much of a hypocrite as to begrudge the man his schemes, it's not like _Red's Double_ attracts a particularly fair-minded clientele as it is. As proven by the fact that flannel guy's chosen victim had cheated just as much as he had, that much Steve definitely noticed. He hadn't planned to get involved — it was none of his business, for one, and despite Clint's and Tony's enthusiastic mocking he is not the living embodiment of all that is virtuous and holy. If two sharks want to play bloody, more power to them.

Or at least that's what Steve had convinced himself of, right up until flannel guy turned out to be the better cheater — even Steve has only caught him a handful of times, and he's got enhanced senses on his side — and his chosen opponent proved himself a sore loser. The kind of sore loser that doesn't just refuse to pay up, but also decides to settle a bet by beating his opponent to a bloody pulp.

With six friends to back him up.

Looking the other way as crooks go about their business is one thing Steve can happily live with — and occasionally indulges in himself, for old times' sake, not that he'll ever admit that or is stupid enough to get caught on a camera accessible by JARVIS. Meaning any camera. But standing back and watching seven guys circle one, no matter how well-trained?

That just doesn't fly. Makes his skin prickle uncomfortably all over, like he's fallen head first into a bush of stinging nettle. Steve doesn't think cowards like that will ever stop pissing him off.

Flannel guy had been holding his own at first, all cockiness and exaggerated swagger despite the overwhelming odds, but Steve hadn't been willing to wait for the tables to turn. Especially not when it had become clear that none of the other locals wanted to get involved. At least not until Steve had knocked one of the sore losers trying to sneak up on a distracted flannel guy flat on his ass.

Hence the bar fight.

And the brief, bloodied smile flannel guy had thrown his way, before ducking under a wild, uncoordinated swing and disappearing in the chaos.

Clearly, he's made it out just fine. Leaning against the entrance door like he has all the time in the world — like he knows Steve won't rat him out, won't draw attention to him — flannel guy gives him another, less bloodied grin and slowly raises his left hand. The hand holding sore loser's wallet.

The man gives it a jaunty, little wave and with a cheeky wink he's gone.

And Steve shouldn't condone theft, shouldn't let the guy get away with his little scheme, shouldn't sit here on his ass and let it happen, but he's laughing too hard to care.

* * *

The next morning, when Coulson lists the seven reported Captain America sightings — as he does every week for entertainment purposes, and because Tony is blackmailing him or so Steve suspects — Steve doesn't flinch and his lips don't twitch when a bar fight in Brooklyn is listed among them.

He thinks of the agents tailing him everyday that SHIELD believes he doesn't know about, and wonders exactly how much of his fun, little outing their observation protocols contain.

Steve checks once, out of idle curiosity, after Natasha teaches him how to hack into their files. But there is no mention of a skilled pickpocket who moves like a soldier in the recordings. Only a partial shot of a bruised face, not enough for facial recognition to draw any worthwhile conclusions.

It shouldn't feel like an accomplishment. It shouldn't feel like getting one over an overbearing, paranoid, spy organisation that sees danger lurking in every corner. It shouldn't.

But Steve Rogers is more than just Captain America, and he takes refugee in every reminder this new, old world throws at him. Even — especially — when it's accompanied by a smug, bloodied smile so familiar it hurts to look at, even as he is beginning to learn to let go.

* * *

 _A lot shorter, but I hope you liked it!_

 _I'm not entirely happy with the last part, but the point of this chapter was to explore a less virtuous, more 'real' side of Steve and I feel like it worked out pretty well. Also the mental image of Steve and Dean fighting back to back in a bar fight they're both hilariously overqualified for is priceless and the only thing I regret is that I couldn't think of a good dialogue between them. As always, please feel free to leave your thoughts in a comment ;)_

 _Next up: Tony_


	3. Three

**| Three |**

* * *

 _"Do you believe in magic?" Madelene – Tony's favourite babysitter to date – asks him curiously, her hands diligently smoothing out the wrinkles on his shirt, and there's a softness in her sad eyes as she looks down at him that makes them light up oh-so prettily._

 _Tony shakes his head wildly because he hates standing still. Because he knows from caustic remarks and dismissive eyerolls that it's the answer his father expects him to give._

* * *

Staring at the surveillance tapes of a strange man in the odd, roman-or-something-equally-out-of-date get-up with a glowing staff causing havoc in Germany, Tony says the only thing that comes to mind:

"I fucking hate magic."

* * *

 _The kid can't be a day older than fourteen, but he holds the gun in his hands like he's been born to. His grip doesn't waver once. There is blood running down his temple, caking strands of his short, blonde hair against his head. A colourful ring of bruises is forming along his throat, clearly visible against the pale skin, and Tony wishes deeply he didn't know exactly how the kid has gotten them. Wishes he hadn't been forced to stand by and watch it happen._

 _Tony tries not to read too much into that. Guilt isn't going to help either of them right now, and frankly, he's got bigger things to worry about than his unusually rebellious consciousness._

 _The kid is throw backwards against the wall with a pained groan – Tony carefully doesn't think about the possibility of spinal cord damage, carefully doesn't think about the fact that it's a windless day and there is no logical explanation for the kid's sudden flight besides something he really doesn't believe in. The kid's still holding on to his gun with admirable stubbornness, but it's pretty clear from his grimace that he's in pain. Tony has the odd urge to push the kid behind him, to shield him somehow from the crazed bitch trying to kill them both._

 _He carefully doesn't think about that either. Focuses on the murderous bitch instead because Tony Stark doesn't have a selfless, protective bone in his body, thank you very much._

 _Tony Stark does however have the wonderful talent to get under people's skin and piss them off beyond reason or measure. He'd brag about it, if it wasn't exactly this particular gift of his that has apparently drawn the wrath of his newest, and as of now most dangerous stalker._

 _Then again, he might die in the next minute, so there really is no time for false modesty. If nothing else, Tony makes a kick-ass distraction._

 _Behind the witch-bitch – and yes, some rational part of Tony's mind still shies away from the inevitable conclusion – the kid manages to get himself into an upright position again. It looks like a strenuous, painful process._

 _Tony would wince in sympathy, but he's a little busy screaming his lungs out. Possibly literally, if the tearing pain in his chest is anything to go by._

 _Once again, the kid pulls the trigger. Hits his mark with deadly accuracy. The bitch stumbles, but doesn't fall._

 _Tony kinda wishes he'd black out now. It seems like as good a moment as any._

 _"Fucking witches!" the kid snarls between his shots, and there's a hatred years too old for his appearance in those words._

* * *

Rhodey laughs. It's a real laugh, working its way out from deep within, loud and boisterous. The sound settles over Tony like a thick, warm blanket, shielding him against the cold and easing the the knot of tension that's been sitting in his chest for weeks now, hidden behind the arc reactor, where no one can reach it.

Until this very moment, Tony had forgotten how much he's missed that laugh.

"Come on, Pepper." Rhodey grins teasingly. There are crinkles of amusement and affection around the corners of his eyes, and Tony would make a joke about old age catching up with them if the sight of it didn't make the words catch in the back of his throat. "There's no such thing as magic."

Pepper grins, cheeks flushed from the cold and the two flutes of champagne. She looks more relaxed than Tony has seen her since he first stepped off that plane, eyes sparkling, a few strands of hair loosened by the evening breeze, and all the more beautiful for it.

Even Natalie's lips twitch into a slight smile that Tony thinks might actually be genuine. He can't be sure though – and he sure as hell isn't going to say anything about it.

"Alright, alright." Pepper concedes with a shake of her head. She doesn't look embarrassed, only exasperated by the lack of support from her company. "All I'm saying is, it's a nice thought."

"I suppose." Rhodey shrugs, like he doesn't much care one way or another, but is willing to indulge her all the same. He has never seen the use of losing yourself in the aching what-ifs. Sometimes Tony envies his best friend's steadfast hold on reality and how he's still smiling so genuinely despite it.

Tony doesn't smile. Tony doesn't say anything at all.

* * *

 _"So." Tony clears his throat. Ignores the burning in his chest, the rawness of his throat that speaks of too much undignified, though perfectly justified screaming. Being quiet doesn't come easy to him. "Witches, huh?"_

 _The kid peers up at him from where he's kneeling over the bitch's body – and crazy as it sounds, Tony could swear it wasn't the seven bullets the kid put in her chest that brought her down but the odd, handmade bracelet he managed to get around her ankle at some point, except for how that makes no sense at all. He looks way too used to dealing with dead bodies for a kid that can't have finished high school for Tony's comfort, and his hazel eyes are hard with a wariness Tony is all-too familiar with. For a moment, he thinks the kid is going to snap. Shoot him maybe or, hell, mind-magic his memories away the way Tony's day is going. But then the kid sighs, head bowed, shoulders drooping in exhaustion, and he looks so fucking young ._

 _"Yeah." the kid mumbles, "Witches."_

 _Followed by Tony's least favourite words in the world. "Among other things."_

* * *

"Sir, may I advise you to cut back on your drinking? The alcohol poisoning in your blood is approaching a Protocol Shutdown level," JARVIS states calmly.

Tony doesn't bother acknowledging him – or the pointed, non-judgmental tone of voice that makes him feel very judged, for that matter. His gaze stays fixated on the screen in front of him, where he watches the too-familiar face of a total stranger smile a deranged, blood-thirsty, _familiar_ smile. Tony has lost track of how often he's watched the footage of the massacre a while ago. Often enough to no longer flinch at the screams and the laughter, at least.

The content remains the same, unchanged, tragedy forever repeating itself on the various surfaces of Tony's workshop. Sam and Dean Winchester publicly gun down twenty-seven civilians in full view of various security cameras. Brutally and clearly enjoying every second of it.

Tony feels sick.

It feels like his entrails have melted together into one big, malevolent puddle of dangerously bubbling goo. The murders aren't the worst Tony has ever seen, not by far. Thanks to JARVIS' hobby of hacking SHIELD, Tony has a very clear idea (and the examples to back it up) just how far human depravity can really go. Compared to some of the torturous fates he has seen in files, these deaths aren't particularly spectacular.

Of course, it's not so much the manner in which the people were killed as the identity of the men pulling the triggers that's bothering Tony. Their terrible pleasure in the face of the destruction they cause.

Everything he is, everything that defines the man he's so desperately trying to become, screams for him to get into his suit and hunt these sick fuckers down. To eradicate them from existence. Give the poor families of those victims the only peace of mind that is left to give.

Tony feels sick.

Everything he was, everything about the man he so desperately doesn't want to be anymore, rallies against that plan, refuses to accept the truth that so clearly plays out in front of his eyes. Remembers a kid with too-steady hands and too-knowing eyes, asking him _"You're gonna believe me? Just like that?"_ with the bitter disbelief of someone who has forgotten what it means to be trusted – has never learned it in the first place.

And what had Tony done? When faced with a kid rambling on about what was at best a rich imagination gone out-of-control, at worst the indication of a serious mental illness? Tony had been a _hypocrite_. Tony had denounced every rule he lived by, still lives by, had discarded everything he knows to be true, refused the logical actions that should have been taken.

Tony had been twenty-two and he'd looked into Dean Winchester's eyes and he had believed. There had been no logic, no rational explanation to justify his actions. Not when he'd shaken a fourteen year old boy's hand. Not when he'd let JARVIS 'misfile' a couple of outstanding warrants. There is no explanation now either, as he watches the footage rewind and start over once more.

Tony feels sick.

There's a chance – a very real chance – that this is a frame-up. God knows, there's enough fucked-up shit out there that could pull something like this off. Enough fucked-up shit with the motivation to go after these two men in particular too. And sure, Tony's already checked the footage for the most common ones. The easy explanation that would ease the ache in his chest that makes the arc reactor feel ten times more heavy than usual. But there's probably other stuff out there, things that no video content analysis in the world will be able to prove.

Still.

There is a chance – no matter how small, no matter how much he hates to admit even this much – that this is real. There's a thin line between hunter and monster. Tony knows the numbers. He's damn good with numbers.

There's no way to know for sure.

What it comes down to is something Tony hates, something he despises with his very being, something he doesn't believe in, something insufficient and flat, something insubstantial and unreasonable. What it comes down to is _faith_.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part is, Tony knows what he's going to do. He knows it with a certainty that scares him, terrifies him, makes him sick on his stomach. Because he _can't_ know for sure and this is a risk that can't be taken, a token of faith that can't be granted, not with twenty-seven innocent lives. Not by Iron Man. Not by a hero.

But Tony Stark was never recommended for the pretty save-the-world-in-spandex club – and maybe, underneath the still smarting wounds, the calculation and the manipulations, there is an actual reason for that.

 _"You're gonna believe me? Just like that?"_

"JARVIS," Tony says, manages to keep his voice as steady as he once watched Dean hold his gun, all those years ago, despite the heavy taste of whiskey on his tongue. "Enable Protocol Ghost. Targets are Sam and Dean Winchester and that trench coat guy, what's-his-name. And the car. Parameters include all intelligence agencies, social networks, hell, fucking WhatsApp. And get rid off those pesky APBs. Oh, and anything SHIELD has on these guys? _Wipe it_. No one's getting anything on these guys that I haven't personally approved of, got it?"

"Understood, sir." Then, after a beat of silence. "Sir… are you certain this is the course of action you wish to take?"

Tony closes his eyes. He thinks of twenty-seven dead civilians. Thinks of their families who'll never get the justice they deserve. Thinks of a kid with green eyes that doesn't expect to be trusted. Thinks of the names of every soldier that got killed by his own weapons. Thinks of mythical forces he doesn't believe in and religious constructs he has no use for.

And he makes his choice.

His resolve does nothing to combat the sick feeling in his stomach.

* * *

 _"Hey kid, if you ever… Just, you know. I owe you one."_

 _"Look, keep your cash and whatever. I was just doing my job."_

* * *

Tony Stark doesn't believe in faith.

(But he believes in Dean Winchester.)

He believes in settling his debts.

* * *

 _I've always wanted to explore the price people pay for believing in the Winchesters a bit more. Because even when you know about the supernatural, as long as you aren't an expert or in the know, there's always that lingering doubt in your mind... and I don't think people like Tony handle it well. At. All. I mean, Tony is about the last person I see as someone who relies on faith and hopes for the best, so I realise that this is an OOC choice for him, but at the same time that's exactly the point, you know? Against all reason, he does believe in Dean and it's breaking him because it goes against everything he believes._

 _Okay, enough rambling. This chapter was a bit of a different style, with a lot more jumping around to different times in Tony's life, but I hope it still made sense and you enjoyed this added teaspoon of angst :)_

 _Next up: Bruce_


	4. Four

**| Four |**

* * *

Sometimes Bruce wonders when he reached the point in his life where getting held at gunpoint became less of a threat and more of a regular occurrence. Albeit an annoying one.

To consider guns a mere annoyance is probably a statement in itself.

One of these days, Bruce is going to sit down in a shadowed corner, stare listlessly at the world around him and contemplate everything that has ever gone wrong in his life and how it has led him here. Today is not that day. Mostly thanks to the man currently pointing a gun at him.

Bruce would feel more threatened if said man didn't keep his bloodied partner upright with his other arm. He would also feel more threatened if bullets were the kind of weapon that can actually injure him, but that's a complaint for another day.

That said, the guy's aim is steady.

Just because Bruce can't be killed by a bullet doesn't mean it's in any way a good idea for him to be near a functioning gun. (And this particular one looks well-cared for. And well-used.) The other guy doesn't exactly hate them – there's what Bruce translates into a dismissive grumble from deep within his mind – but he has no fondness for them. More importantly guns tend to escalate a situation.

Bruce and escalation are a spectacularly bad mix.

Fortunately, the armed man seems calm. Bruce absently wonders if he would still be as calm if he were to find himself suddenly faced with a green rage monster. That sort of thing tends to throw people off their game.

He less absently wonders why it is that the other guy hasn't even bristled yet, despite the very – let's call it 'confrontational' approach of the young man. The stranger is tall – very tall –, covered in blood – hopefully not all of which belongs to his friend, otherwise Bruce doubts the man will make it – but above all else he is calm.

It might not have struck Bruce as odd if it wasn't for the heavily injured man the guy practically carried. And it's that more than anything else that tells Bruce not to underestimate this man. Few people are this professional when someone bleeds out on them.

"Can you help him?" the man asks, adjusts his grip when the other male sags. For all intents and purposes it's a calm, polite question – save for the gun.

Bruce swallows an almost automatic – defensive – 'I'm not that kind of doctor'. There's no use. They're too far away from civilisation to suggest a hospital. Bruce has had some training at least – not that he suspects it will matter. A first-aid kit, no matter how well-stocked, can't replace all this blood.

"I can try."

The man has already lowered his friend to the ground and begun cutting the guy's bloodied leather jacket off with a silver knife. Much to his friend's horror, if the wordless groans are anything to go by. Then again, that might just be the pain.

"I'm Sam by the way," the man mutters at some point, minutes after his friend has lost consciousness.

"Bruce," he replies because it seems impolite not to.

He's more focused on the slick feeling of his hand where he's trying to stem the injured man's blood loss. It's becoming more and more obvious that they're fighting a losing battle, but Sam's hands remain steady and Bruce focuses on applying pressure.

It doesn't help.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says when he pulls his hands away. There's nothing left to save.

That doesn't help either.

Sam's face looks ashen in the twilight, but his eyes are dry. He clears his throat twice and when he speaks his voice is low but steady. "Thank you for trying." He even manages to sound genuine.

His hands don't tremble when they reach out to close glassy green eyes. Bruce can't help but wonder what it would take to truly shake this man by his side. It's an uncomfortable thought, though he can't pinpoint why exactly.

Sam's friend – Sam hasn't said his name and Bruce hasn't asked – doesn't look peaceful or any of the other poetic descriptions that might come to mind. He looks pallid and slack and attractive in an abstract way that reminds Bruce of a lifelike puppet.

"You'd think I'd get used to it," Sam murmurs. His hand clenches into a painfully tight fist.

Bruce looks at him then. Sees a man at least ten years younger than he is with old eyes and a tired smile.

"There are some things you never get used to," is what he ends up saying, even though Bruce is starting to learn that it might be a lie.

Besides, " _You look like you are_ ," is a rude thing to point out.

Sam smiles. It's the first false expression Bruce has seen on him.

"We'll see," Sam says simply.

There is a confession in there somewhere, heavy and deep and devastating. But grief is a dangerous thing and the other guy is beginning to get restless.

"Can you–" Bruce waves his hand because isn't sure how to put 'take care of the body' without sounding like a crazy serial killer.

Sam nods once, sharply. "I've got this."

There's an awkward moment where you're supposed to shake hands but neither of them reach out. Then Bruce turns around, one last glance at a man he couldn't save – but at least didn't kill, and that shouldn't make it better – and walks away.

"You should wash that off somewhere," Sam calls after him with a nonchalance that strikes Bruce as wrong, though he can't pin down why. "People tend not to react too well to seeing someone covered in blood."

Bruce doesn't know what to say to that. But Sam isn't wrong.

* * *

Bruce sees the wanted poster a couple of weeks later, through sheer coincidence. He doesn't freeze, doesn't walk up to take a closer look like other people might have. In his defence, he's being hunted by another group of Ross' lackeys and has more important things to worry about.

And, really, there's no point in investigating the sins of a dead man.

* * *

 _In Bruce's defence: He isn't familiar with the Winchesters or he'd realise how wrong he is. Also Sam finally did make an appearance while Dean's part in the whole thing was rather limited. In his defence, he was dying._

 _(I'm picturing this happening sometime during the apocalypse mess, so while the death part undoubtedly sucks it's pretty much a given for Dean to be resurrected and Sam knows it. But it's really up to you. Knowing the Winchesters, this could have happened pretty much at any point *rolls eyes*)_

 _Next: Natasha_


	5. Five

**| Five |**

* * *

HYDRA is built on humanities' worst qualities. The Red Room is not.

Natalia doesn't know the difference in the beginning. She only knows secrets that taste like blood, and ice, and sulfur, a darkness that can't be purified, only pushed back, to be burdened on something, someone else.

As time passes and loyalties change, there are many secrets Natalia is forced to give up for one reason or another. Some she is relieved to share the burden of. Some she is glad to drag into the light. Some she despises having to reveal.

Some she never shares at all.

The truth, after all, holds its own condemnation. And the shadows of the Red Room grow ever longer.

* * *

Changing sides changes some things. Most, inevitably, stay the same. After all, Natalia hasn't renounced her trade, has merely exchanged one master for another.

Perhaps this is an unnecessarily cynical assessment, for though SHIELD has many flaws, it has not reached the depravity of the Red Room by far. There is a humanity to SHIELD, an underlying ideal to guide its followers. A righteousness the Red Room, in its amoral practicality has lacked. The values SHIELD upholds may ring hollow in her ears, a long line of abstract concepts and constructs that excuse as much evil as they prevent, but Natalia hasn't had anything to believe in in a long time.

A construct, no matter how loosely interpreted, casts constraints. Natalia finds she enjoys working within the restraints these ideals offer — a protection, for herself, from herself. A challenge. A line not to be crossed.

Of course, the benefits SHIELD has offered her are hard to remember when she is stuck in a underground prison that is either illegal or so highly classified it amounts to the same thing should its existence ever be made public. It's one of the most secure places SHIELD has to offer — though the prison is not actually a part of their organisation, her briefing has been very clear on that, and she is inclined to believe that for the time being — which is why Fury isn't happy about the sudden tendency of its inmates to keel over dead. No point in going all-out to capture them alive, only for them to die before you can get all you need out of them.

Natalia can respect that. SHIELD may not be the Red Room, but there is a long list of ugly sins hiding in the organisation's underbelly. What Natalia respects less is that, out of all the agents available, she has been volunteered for an undercover stint in this hellhole.

She can't help wondering if there is an underlying ' _If you ever betray us, this is where you'll end up_ ' message in this mess. Not that she cares. If she ever strays, Barton will kill her. She will let him. That's what they've sworn each other, and unlike many others, it's an oath Natalia knows they both intend to keep.

What really bothers Natalia isn't a possible threat, it's that this mission is below her abilities. There is nothing particularly challenging about observing the guards. Granted, she is better at reading than most, but her true calling is the art of the kill. One thoroughly wasted in a place like this.

But it takes more than two months in a cell to unsettle the Black Widow, so she doesn't let any of it bother her. Simply accepts the mission with a raised eyebrow and a nod, and goes to work.

Natalia finds three corrupt guards within her first three weeks. If there are any more, she's sure they are connected to those three, which should be enough for SHIELD. But Natalia has never been particularly good at ending a mission without actually _ending_ a mission. The last remains of her training perhaps, or just another way in which the Red Room has shaped her that cannot be undone.

She doesn't call for extraction. There is still work to be done here. And Natalia enjoys the challenge of working among those damned as much as she is.

* * *

New prisoners show up all the time. There is no schedule, no regularity. As is to be expected of a prison that officially doesn't exist. Usually, it takes Natalia half a day to two days to notice the presence of a newbie, depending on the placement of their cell.

This time it takes her ten minutes. She would have heard of him even if she wasn't who and what she is. In fact, Natalia is fairly sure that, by the end of the day, there isn't anyone in this place who hasn't heard of the new arrival. But Natalia doesn't have to rely on gossip.

She sees him as he shuffles down the hallway, hands and feet encased in iron cuffs, six heavily armed guards surrounding him. He doesn't smile, doesn't joke, doesn't look particularly unhinged or threatening. But it doesn't escape Natalia's notice that none of the guards look very happy to be where they are — nor do they appear very confident.

When Natalia meets the man's gaze for a moment as he passes her cell, she understands why.

It takes a lot to unsettle a Black Widow. But this man manages it with one quick, appraising look and unhurried, if somewhat awkward, small steps.

They call him Winchester, and Natalia sees the Red Room's darkest shadows in his eyes.

* * *

Time passes.

Winchester is a quiet prisoner. He makes no waves, starts no fights, keeps to himself, and he always, always watches. There are five occurrences Natalia is aware of, during which Winchester was involved in a confrontation. Never the aggressive party, but always the victorious one.

And still, he sits back and watches. Natalia sits back and watches Winchester watch them all. She is fairly sure he's aware of her, but he has made no indication of it.

So she continues.

Winchester, she concludes after the first week, is oddly detached. He does not appear to worry about his situation, shows neither hope nor despair. He walks among his fellow damned with ease. Speaks the language of violence as fluent as Natalia herself. And yet.

He does not belong.

Natalia wonders what Winchester is doing in this place. Wonders how they caught him. He looks human enough, but Natalia has seen the scars. She has seen his eyes. Winchester may look human, may even be human enough, but he carries a darkness that can neither be stopped nor destroyed, only ever pushed back. A darkness the Red Room has been built on.

She wonders if throwing Winchester in this cage that isn't supposed to exist is the world's way of pushing him back. Wonders if the decision of throwing him into the middle of the worst predators humanity has to offer wasn't born out of a failing hope that they would rip him apart. It is a plan doomed to failure from the very start. There are no fights — none that leave witnesses at least — nor does he suffer a mysterious death.

All Winchester does is sharpen his teeth.

Natalia continues to watch. Winchester continues to let her.

* * *

It is carelessness that almost brought Natalia's end at the hands of Clint Barton once, all those years ago. And it is carelessness once more that almost brings about Natalia's death now, this time by one of the dirty guards she has identified.

There are many who seek the death of a Black Widow. Many who will pay a price far greater than needed to tempt better men than the one she's been saddled with. It would be a disgrace of a death, to fall to one such as this. But Natalia has long learned, that grace has nothing to do with death. And neither has justice.

Death is messy. Hers will be no exception.

Even unarmed and injured as she is now, Natalia's body is enough of a weapon to tip the balance in her favour. But she is locked into her cell, with no easy measure to escape, and she can feel the drugs working their way through her system, encouraged by the quick pace of her heartbeat, and she knows she won't be able to keep this up much longer. Won't keep this up long enough.

If only Cole had been stupid enough to take her on alone.

She snaps the neck of one of the bastards, dislocates another's shoulder. Gets thrown into a wall for her effort. Delivers a painful kick into a kidney. Wraps her legs around a neck. Squeezes. Has her head slammed against the metal frame of the bed. Hard.

Knows the next time she is down, she might not get up again.

Suddenly the heavy weight of the man on top of her is gone. Natalia blinks, multiple times, before her vision clears, reveals a familiar shape.

There, in the middle of her cell he isn't supposed to be able to enter, stands Winchester. For the first time she sees him without the cuffs limiting his movements, sees him not hunched down but standing tall, and the difference is staggering.

Natalia hadn't noticed it before, had nothing to compare this Winchester to. But now, as he is standing above her, fully at ease despite the two guns aimed at him, the hateful glares and clear threats the men are sprouting, straight back and broad shoulders, a confident smirk that fits far too well on his lips, she realises that all she has seen until this very moment was a shadow.

But right now, standing between Natalia and a long due death sentence, Winchester is alight. A freshly lit flame, a slowly flexing muscle only just now remembering its true strength. He is determination and purpose, and when he chances a glance over his shoulder to wink at her, she doesn't find the shadows she's become accustomed to in his gaze.

If they were ever truly there, they have long since been burned to ash by the hellfire lighting up his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" one of the guards barks, though there is no mistaking the fear on his face.

"Oh, don't mind me," Winchester says lightly. They are the first words Natalia has heard him speak. "Me? I'm just checking that there's nothing untoward going on in this lovely lady's home. A friendly, neighbourly call, if you will."

One of the men scoffs — or maybe that's Natalia — but then the room descends into a violent chaos, with Winchester at its centre, and it doesn't matter anymore.

When it's over, Winchester is bruised and bloodied and stands all the taller for it.

Natalia doesn't thank him.

She doesn't think there is anything to be grateful about to find herself indebted to the most dangerous man she has ever met.

* * *

It doesn't end there. The fight.

Later, Natalia will wonder how long Winchester has been planning this. If maybe it was pure coincidence that he entered her cell at the precise moment Cole and his friends decided to act. It's possible, she supposes, that he improvises in the aftermath of the attack on her. But the thought that he manages to break out of one of the most secure prisons she's ever been in with no warning and minimal preparation, is a terrifying possibility to consider. Made all the more so because it is not impossible.

As it is, it doesn't matter. All that matters, is that Winchester gets out. Gets her out. Gets them out.

Natalia only remembers the breakout in bits and pieces later.

 _A steady arm around her waist, guiding her. The smashing of glass. Screams. A choked-off breath. A long hallway. Flickering light. Sirens._

 _Silence._

She comes to in a standard hospital room, having been dropped off by a man every eyewitness will later describe differently, and that's that.

* * *

Besides herself, Natalia learns, once she contacts her handler and finally gets around to a proper debriefing, fifteen prisoners disappeared during the breakout. Thirteen were found and successfully recaptured within twenty-four hours.

Number fourteen and fifteen have disappeared off the face of the earth.

Natalia is unsurprised to find out that Winchester is one of them. She is even less surprised to learn that the other missing prisoner is the one Winchester freed first. The others he probably only got out for convenience sake, to cause greater chaos. A smokescreen. When in truth Natalia is certain that it was only ever about that one other man.

She doesn't share her suspicion with her handler. Nor does she share her impressions of Winchester.

"We only talked once," is all Natalia is willing to say on the matter. "He seemed sane, confident. Flirty."

That last one makes her handler choke on his own spit. Natalia doesn't bother to hide her eye-roll.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, after the dust settles and new missions draw closer, Natalia will break into SHIELD's headquarters and erase the admittedly bare-boned file on Winchester, Dean from existence.

It has nothing to do with the debt she owes him, and everything to do with the monsters the Red Room has awoken in its greed for more. Monsters that Natalia will never breathe a word of, to anyone. The shadows of the Red Room are too long as it is.

Winchester may not be a beast born of their terrible poison, but he carries the same darkness, is a part of the same world, and Natalia will not see him in SHIELDs hands nor anyone else's. There is no absolution to be found in the truth of evil beyond human nature. Only power. And power will always, always corrupt.

Natalia has seen it in the Red Room. Still does, because such darkness, once awoken, can not be laid to rest again. The Red Room's poison is far-reaching.

And Dean Winchester is not of their making — is not her responsibility — but he casts his own shadow.

* * *

 _Not gonna lie, this is my favourite part. It's always a joy to write Natasha. And though none of the Avengers are fooled by Dean's 'average joe' pretence, Natasha is the one who sees him the clearest. Also the darkest because she's Natasha and certainly doesn't believe in the 'good' in others. Oh well, enough ramblings from me._

 _Please let me know what you think!_

 _(Also the next part is going to take some time, I'm still not sure how to approach Thor's party yet. Make it humorous, devastating angst or bitter remembrance of missed chances... so many possibilities.)_


	6. Plus One

**| Plus One |**

* * *

It is no rare occurrence for Thor to seek refuge on Midgard these days.

Not too long ago, he would not have considered any place but Asgard his home, would never have thought he could one day forsake its golden halls and vibrant wilds, would ever yearn for a peace and quiet far away from boisterous laughter and deafening cheers.

 _Careful, brother. You sound far too much like me for both of our comfort_.

Thor frowns down at his beverage.

The alcohol is strong by Midgardian standards, but Thor knows from experience that they will not offer the rush of warmth nor the easing of heartsore he often finds in Asgardian mead. While inconvenient, it is an acceptable trade-off. Thor has not come here tonight to forget.

And Asgard. Asgard is home. Will always be home, dearly beloved by Thor like no other world he has entered, fought for or against. But for all its strength and vigor, Asgard is not pure, not _whole_ like Thor remembers it being.

 _Awww, you do miss me. How... heartwarming._

Despite himself Thor smirks. Mocking is— has been— is Loki's natural state of being. He should not miss his brother's poisonous tongue, but Thor has admired Loki's mastery of the craft long before his brother began to use his skill against him.

It is a habit that he hasn't managed to get rid off so far, not unlike the clinging fondness and affection, buried deep under desperation, rage, frustration, betrayal and grief as they might be.

 _You would do well to get rid of that soft heart of yours, Thor_.

"You alright there, Point Break?" Anthony, the Man of Iron, leans against the bar next to him, a glass of something bright pink, non-alcoholic in his hands.

 _Always with the nicknames, that mortal_.

"I am well, Friend Stark," Thor replies on reflex. It is not a lie, nor a true. Perhaps Loki has taught him something after all.

"Uhu." Anthony does not look convinced, but neither does he continue to prod, for which Thor is grateful. Instead, Anthony chatters on about a new training simulation he is itching to try and Thor attempts to pay attention.

'You sound like you like him,' he can't help but point out to the voice inside his head, although he very well knows the futility of such an action.

 _He amuses me_.

'As proven by your decision to throw him out of a window.'

 _Do not pretend as though you have not wished to do so yourself a time or two, Thor. Envy is not a good look on you and, to speak frankly, I do not appreciate you encroaching on my territory._

"You sure you're alright, Thunder Bolt?" Anthony asks suddenly, and Thor only just manages to suppress a guilty wince.

"As alright as I ever am," he replies lightly instead and bears the long, judging look that earns him without fidgeting.

His shield brothers and sister are harder and harder to fool the more time he spends with them, but Thor can not help it. He does not enjoy lying to them even by omission, but the truth of the matter is that they simply won't understand.

To them, Loki has only ever been an enemy to be defeated. A monster to be put down.

And as much as Thor likes their company, it is in moments like these that he wishes he hadn't sought them out. Had continued to roam Midgard on his own, just another rundown face in dirty bar, left to drown his ghosts — or converse with them in peace, as the case may be.

With his fellow warriors around him, mingling in the crowd, this is a luxury Thor no longer has.

 _You could always leave_ , his brother reminds him, and though Thor knows well how little appreciation Loki has for humanity, he can never quite unhear the bitterness accompanying those words.

Unbidden, memories of a conversation not too long after Thor had returned to Midgard again flash before his eyes.

 _"I do not know why I even bothered," Thor says, the words wrong and hateful and bitter because he is so tired of feeling guilty. "All we ever did was fight."  
_

 _"Well, duh." The man opposed to him snorts, sharp like the jerky, mechanical motions with which he mixes another drink. "'Course you fight. That's what brothers do. Fighting's easy. Question is, do your fights with each other keep you from fighting for each other?"_

Thor still does not know how or why he had started a conversation with that man. It was not as though the human shell had fooled him, not even for a moment. There was no not noticing the black film coating the mortal's very essence, now missing the wild darkness lurking behind warm, green eyes.

Thor has spent enough time of his life fighting monsters to recognise one when he faces it.

But there had been something about this creature, about the way it clung to feebly upheld, human illusions, the way it had tipped its head at Thor when he had first entered the dive. The smile it had worn when it crushed the hand of a patron unable to accept a refusal.

 _How... interesting_ , Loki had murmured by his side and in that moment his brother's ghost had been more solid than ever before.

To this day, Thor is not sure what made him say the words, what made him confess one of his darkest thoughts, a suspicion that has grown in his heart since he first found Loki again on Midgard after his fall.

" _We have fought before many times, but I believe- I believe my brother intended for me to kill him this time._ "

In all honesty, Thor had not expected an answer. He had simply needed to say out loud what had weighted on him for so long. And his fellow warriors, much as he trusts and loves them, do not need to share this burden. To them Loki is a bad week long passed, and Thor is reluctant to bring up old pains again.

The creature had barely blinked at the confession. " _If I've learned one thing, it's that sometimes we dare the ones we love to reject and abandon us. But we never forget it if they do_." It shrugs, for the first time appearing uncomfortable in its deceptive skin. " _We never forget if they don't_."

It had walked away then, and when it returned a couple of minutes later, it had been carrying a tray covered with what Thor has learned are shots.

" _Your alcohol will not affect me_ ," Thor felt obligated to admit.

The creature had given him a short, assessing once-over. " _Yeah, I figured after the last six glasses of whiskey you had_." It shrugged again, the motion fluid and comfortable. " _Gotta admit, it's not doing much for me either. But we're not having this conversation without drinks, so bottoms up, man. Name's_ _Dean Winchester, by the way_."

The creature had sized him up then, waiting for a reaction. It had reminded Thor of all the times Loki had introduced himself as the Liesmith, daring those around him to do something. Thor wishes sometimes he had learned sooner not to rise to the bait, but he _has_ learned eventually.

And so he simply inclined his head and accepted the first glass.

Loki's ghost had been silent by his side, but for the first time since his brother's death, Thor hadn't minded so much. Despite the twisted darkness in the creature's core, it had made for a surprisingly pleasant companion. One who, Thor felt with something like pain or resignation or regret, might just have a better insight into Loki's mind than Thor has ever managed to gain.

" _Look, I'm the last to tell you how to fix anything, never mind a relationship_." The creature laughed and Thor could see its hollowness. Something inside him _ached_ — the realisation that he has heard this laugh before, many times, on his brother's face — but he stayed silent.

" _All I've got is. You either hold on or you let go. You know? There's no half-assing this shit_."

" _I believe you are correct_ ," Thor had said, as much to the creature as to himself.

The creature smirked self-deprecatingly. " _It's been known to happen_."

Then it had lifted its eleventh glass. " _To unbearable, pain in the ass, stupid, self-destructive little brothers_."

" _Aye_."

Thor had never told the creature that his brother was dead. He had never asked about the whereabouts of its own brother.

But despite that, despite all the questions that remained unanswered, all the arguments that had never been resolved, Thor had walked out of that bar with a lighter heart and a new resolution.

" _Do or do not_ ," the creature had said in amusement. " _There is no try_."

That encounter shouldn't have changed anything, but Thor remembers all the times Loki has taunted him with the many pathways across Yggdrasil that he does not know, remembers all the time and practice Loki put into illusions, remembers magicks more powerful than most sorcerers can ever hope to achieve. Remembers six secrets at the beginning of everything and a power so absolute only a madman would seek it.

 _I'm really quite flattered that you're trying to turn into a megalomaniac for me, brother. And to think, I was so sure you never listened to a word I said._

'I didn't.'

 _I_ knew _it!_

"Thor? Seriously, buddy, are you okay?" Anthony's genuinely concerned voice breaks Thor out of his reverie.

"I am fine, Anthony."

This time Anthony outright snorts. "Yeah, you didn't even try with that one. Come on, we're going to find Cap. If anyone can shake some sense into you it's probably him and his soulful stare of Judgmental What Are You Keeping From Me Look."

This is how Thor finds himself surrounded by his shield brothers and sister, has to reassure Steve Rogers, and avoid looking too closely at the Black Widow, and is unable to suppress a smile at Clint Barton's antics. Thor doesn't have to turn around, he can feel Loki's haughty sneer, but he shrugs it off with the ease of long years of practice and resolves to enjoy the rest of the night.

Two of the infinity stones are here, hidden on Midgard, and whilst Thor may be unable to find them on his own, they are not going anywhere for now. Neither is his brother's ghost.

He will find a way. Thor always does.

But for now, he raises his glass with his fellow team members.

"To saving the world!" Clint Barton jokes.

"To _staying alive_!" Natasha shoots back immediately.

"To Dean Winchester!" Thor booms as Clint sticks his tongue out at the Black Widow.

Anthony chokes on his alcohol-free appletini, so Thor thumbs him on the back a few times — gently, of course.

He does not know what to make of the glances the Black Widow shoots him for the rest of the evening, but Thor soon puts the matter out of his mind.

He has a brother to save.

* * *

 **The end**

* * *

 _And we're finally done. I honestly wasn't sure that would ever happen lol. But I hope you enjoyed this last part, even if it didn't turn out as light-hearted as I initially planned._  
 _Please be so kind and let me know in a comment what you think! And have a great Sunday everybody!_

 _Also before I forget, I do have a tumblr for all things Dean Winchester now, so if you have any Supernatural prompts, please say hi on deanwinchestertogo_


End file.
